We only want facts here. We'll derive feeling from how they fit together, or from the gaps they leave between. Just tell me about your day, Hemingway. You're chasing a ghost with a drink in your hand. The stupor will excuse you from fidelity to the truth, but you'll still record it in minute detail. Tell me more about which way the cab was headed, or what it looked like out that train window. I'll know by the middle that you're prophet for some obsolete religion. The cathedral walls ring empty, but I recognize that pull toward prayer. Hold her up like a relic. Chant with the choir over cocktails. We're all just along for the ride.
I understand you like I understand the need to remember after the fact. The scramble to recall the morning commute that you ignored until you lost that job. The pining for the everyday constants in middle of the relationship once your lover has moved on. How was it ever before? How was it ever at all?
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